Coping
by Fallende
Summary: Seeing him again had been the first - and last - time John Watson had ever fainted.


**AN:/ **_Spoilers for 2.03. I own nothing of this series, it's the BBC's job to keep this series going._

_Also, I use some (slightly twisted) facts from 'The Empty House'. Read it, my fellow fans, you'll feel better after that tragic season finale._

_Lastly, I use their last names predominantly. I'm so used to it that way in the books and hearing them call eachother 'John' and 'Sherlock' is a little weird to me._

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><p>John Watson was, needless to say, devestated with the loss of Sherlock Holmes.<p>

And perhaps the fact that Scotland Yard had taken this tragic event and twisted it into some sick news story with the help of that girl reporter and Jim Moriarty just made him all the more vengeful. Seeing the one person he cared about most in the world turned into a fraud was something Watson simply couldn't stand.

But, he'd slowly been getting used to having Holmes gone. Perhaps he wasn't quite there yet, but he was coping.

He just couldn't stand the idea of what the public might think of the tall, genius man now.

And of course Watson knew the truth. He'd always known, never for a second doubted the idea that Holmes might have made Jim Moriarty up. Living with a man like that for a year and a half caused one to get to know them, even a man as complex and intricate a personality as Sherlock Holmes. And no 'note' or anything else Holmes or anyone else said could ever change what John Watson knew to be fact.

Another fact he knew - he'd never said goodbye. On the phone (he'd called, not texted. Watson should have seen that as a sign!) Holmes had been painful to listen to. Watson had known he was crying; could hear the trembling in that usually cool as ice voice. And even if Watson had been given an extra few seconds before his dark haired compainion had jumped, Watson knew he wouldn't have been able to say it. Not even now, to his psyciatrist, or to that shiny, out of place black gravestone that Watson so detested. He couldn't say goodbye.

But he was coping, really. Every once in a while he'd see a whirl of black coat tails, or a shock of curly dark hair, and maybe for a second he'd hope, pray to a God he wished he could believe in these days, that it was Holmes. But he never let that thought linger too long because really, he was moving on. Really.

Even if Sarah, or Molly, or Lestrade, or Donovan, or Mycroft didn't think so.

But who cared what those last three thought.

Or Sarah. They were still friends, even if she'd dumped him over Holmes.

And who even cared what Molly thought, for that matter. And funny, sometimes Watson thought she seemed to know something. But he never let himself dwell on that thought either. Because he was coping.

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><p>He'd spend his days preoccupied with cases he knew Holmes would have taken up. Ronald Adair, his current detective exploit, kept him reasonably busy.<p>

He'd spend his nights coping at a pub, every once in a while. He'd indulge himself in a few beers, perhaps whiskey. Because getting over someone took some alcohol sometimes. And occasionally, in his tipsy (perhaps a little drunk, he'd be willing to admit) state, Watson would watch an old scraggly man in the back. He'd seen the poor fellow a few times. With dark hair and drawn in cheekbones, the man always sat in the back, reading a book. Watson had deduced (even an 'idiot' like him could deduce this) that the drunk was an avid reader.

They always happened to leave the pub together. Not _together_ together, but they always left within minutes of each other. If Watson got up to leave, so did the old man. If the old man got up to leave, so did Watson.

But once when he'd, accidentally he might add, bumped into the man and caused him to drop his books, the rugged brute had grunted and knocked his hand away. Watson had left soon after, stumbling and confused. In his inebriated state, he'd walked straight into 221b Baker Street. He'd teetered up the 17 steps (Holmes had off-handedly told him that's how many there were, once) to his (was it really his?) old flat, nearly crying but for the first time in the last 3 _terrifying_ months prepared to face his harsh new reality.

And promptly fainted.

It was the first - and last - time he'd ever fainted in his life. But perhaps that could have been considered a moment of weakness for him. Watson figured he deserved one, after all this.

The next thing he'd known Sherlock Holmes was hovering over him, undoing the buttons of his collared dress shirt. He'd been vaguely aware of how strange this was. And yes, perhaps their friendship and _maybe_ feelings for each other made this okay. After all, Holmes had ripped his clothes (actually, it was only a coat, Watson wasn't over-sensitive) off next to a swimming pool. Nevermind the bombs strapped to it. And yes, they'd sprinted down an alleyway hand-in-hand (thin, a little bony, but warm). Regardless of the fact that they were being chased by cops.

Watson was vaguely aware that he should probably tell Holmes that this moment should be added to the list of things never to tell anyone. Ever.

But suddenly he'd been able to breathe again, and he gulped in the air greedily. Suddenly, looking into the pale face of the man above him, John Watson had felt that the Earth, _finally_, had started spinning below him again.

And he was furious. Really, what kind of best friend makes their other watch them jump off a building? So he'd yelled vehemently at Holmes, who kneeled down next to him and just took it all in, a grim look on his face the entire time. And then Holmes offered his hand, helped him into his favorite sitting chair, and told him all about how he'd had to do it, in order to keep his blogger safe.

And the pale lips of Sherlock Holmes had spread into a his trademark grin, and Watson knew that everything was going to be alright between them. Because Holmes needed his help with another case.


End file.
